Okay, so last night I endured a Jonas Brother’s Concert because I love my daughter. What other POSSIBLE reason would a sensible adult pay money to be tortured with sights and sounds likened only to adolescent bats in skinny jeans? I ask you.
I picked up my daughter and two of her friends at school yesterday where they were busy making t-shirts declaring their undying devotion to each band member (one for each band member…you know, so there’s no competition.) We gleefully headed to Everett in a torrential downpour listening to the wonder boys blaring from the stereo. I finally said, “Hey girls, since we’re going to be seeing the magic trio in just a few short hours, do you think we could listen to something else?” I’m not sure if the Juno Soundtrack was much better, but that’s beside the point.
As we drove past the Comcast Arena we saw hundreds of LITTLE girls all dressed up; many, many of them in matching t-shirts or entire outfits as their friends. Amy rolled down her window as we passed to shout, “I LOVE NICK JONAS!!!” out the window….then the window would not. Roll. Up. It was pouring down rain, and I was looking at leaving a BORROWED car (mine is currently waiting for a new front end after my OTHER teenager wrecked it last week. Much longer, sadder, story for another day) full of teenager crap and a new car stereo in a parking lot in Everett? I think not.
So I pulled into a gas station where Amy and I struggled to get the window back up, with no luck. In the back seat her friends were saying things like, “Oh my gosh, it still totally hasn’t hit me that we’re going to see THEM in like, two hours!” We watched as an adult with Downs Syndrome called 911 from a payphone, and the gas station parking lot filled with emergency vehicles….like big ones. The window was not budging, and I was starting to get really nervous. Just then, a sort of rough looking guy in a baseball cap walks out of the mini-mart with a bag of chips and asks if we need help.
“Yes!” I say with relief evident in my voice. (The fact that the parking lot was full of people with badges and shiny vehicles with lights flashing added some measure of comfort that he wasn’t going to carjack us.) He came over and tried to help, but the window wasn’t going anywhere. He said, “Do you see that car dealership across the street? That’s where I work. Drive over there, I have some tools and maybe we can get this at least rolled up so you can lock it.” Amy and I both beamed “Oh, thank you!” at the same time.
I drove across the busy intersection, while he walked across and directed me to park on the sidewalk behind a mini-van. He was beside us in flash with tools and went to work dismantling the door and said, “If you hear things start breaking and popping, it’s because they are.” Great. He then looked up and said, “What do you call a black guy who flies a plane?” I held my breath in horror at his response, and he said, “A PILOT, you racist! HAHAHAHAHA!! I love telling that one to parents in front of their kids just to watch their faces to see what I’m going to say!” Oh, geez.
This man spent over 30 minutes in the pouring rain trying everything to fix the window for us. He took apart the motor to release the window (which still left about a 4 inch gap, but better than all the way down), jammed a stick of wood into the panel to keep the window up, gave me all of the spare screws for my mechanic to deal with and tipped his hat. I scrambled across the seat to try to give him some money, and he said, “No way!” and walked away. I rolled down my own window and craned my head out to say, “Are you sure? We really can’t thank you enough!” He just waved as he walked away and said, “Pay it forward!”
Kind of makes you want to cry.
Suddenly a night in arena filled with 8 – 14 year old screaming girls didn’t seem so ominous. The warm fuzzies carried me ALMOST all the way through the concert (although I did want to strangle the 9 year old in the box above us that was screaming and weeping the whole time….in my EAR.) I even skipped the parent lounge (yes, there was a parent lounge at this concert) to stand there and grimace, I mean smile, trying not to make it obvious that my fingers are in my ears.
I’m still thinking about that nice man. If you’re ever in Everett at a car dealership on Rucker Avenue, stop in and buy a car from him, would you? I hope someone does today, it felt so good to experience the kindness of a stranger and he's got a lot of good karma coming his way.
I picked up my daughter and two of her friends at school yesterday where they were busy making t-shirts declaring their undying devotion to each band member (one for each band member…you know, so there’s no competition.) We gleefully headed to Everett in a torrential downpour listening to the wonder boys blaring from the stereo. I finally said, “Hey girls, since we’re going to be seeing the magic trio in just a few short hours, do you think we could listen to something else?” I’m not sure if the Juno Soundtrack was much better, but that’s beside the point.
As we drove past the Comcast Arena we saw hundreds of LITTLE girls all dressed up; many, many of them in matching t-shirts or entire outfits as their friends. Amy rolled down her window as we passed to shout, “I LOVE NICK JONAS!!!” out the window….then the window would not. Roll. Up. It was pouring down rain, and I was looking at leaving a BORROWED car (mine is currently waiting for a new front end after my OTHER teenager wrecked it last week. Much longer, sadder, story for another day) full of teenager crap and a new car stereo in a parking lot in Everett? I think not.
So I pulled into a gas station where Amy and I struggled to get the window back up, with no luck. In the back seat her friends were saying things like, “Oh my gosh, it still totally hasn’t hit me that we’re going to see THEM in like, two hours!” We watched as an adult with Downs Syndrome called 911 from a payphone, and the gas station parking lot filled with emergency vehicles….like big ones. The window was not budging, and I was starting to get really nervous. Just then, a sort of rough looking guy in a baseball cap walks out of the mini-mart with a bag of chips and asks if we need help.
“Yes!” I say with relief evident in my voice. (The fact that the parking lot was full of people with badges and shiny vehicles with lights flashing added some measure of comfort that he wasn’t going to carjack us.) He came over and tried to help, but the window wasn’t going anywhere. He said, “Do you see that car dealership across the street? That’s where I work. Drive over there, I have some tools and maybe we can get this at least rolled up so you can lock it.” Amy and I both beamed “Oh, thank you!” at the same time.
I drove across the busy intersection, while he walked across and directed me to park on the sidewalk behind a mini-van. He was beside us in flash with tools and went to work dismantling the door and said, “If you hear things start breaking and popping, it’s because they are.” Great. He then looked up and said, “What do you call a black guy who flies a plane?” I held my breath in horror at his response, and he said, “A PILOT, you racist! HAHAHAHAHA!! I love telling that one to parents in front of their kids just to watch their faces to see what I’m going to say!” Oh, geez.
This man spent over 30 minutes in the pouring rain trying everything to fix the window for us. He took apart the motor to release the window (which still left about a 4 inch gap, but better than all the way down), jammed a stick of wood into the panel to keep the window up, gave me all of the spare screws for my mechanic to deal with and tipped his hat. I scrambled across the seat to try to give him some money, and he said, “No way!” and walked away. I rolled down my own window and craned my head out to say, “Are you sure? We really can’t thank you enough!” He just waved as he walked away and said, “Pay it forward!”
Kind of makes you want to cry.
Suddenly a night in arena filled with 8 – 14 year old screaming girls didn’t seem so ominous. The warm fuzzies carried me ALMOST all the way through the concert (although I did want to strangle the 9 year old in the box above us that was screaming and weeping the whole time….in my EAR.) I even skipped the parent lounge (yes, there was a parent lounge at this concert) to stand there and grimace, I mean smile, trying not to make it obvious that my fingers are in my ears.
I’m still thinking about that nice man. If you’re ever in Everett at a car dealership on Rucker Avenue, stop in and buy a car from him, would you? I hope someone does today, it felt so good to experience the kindness of a stranger and he's got a lot of good karma coming his way.
2 comments:
You are such a good Mom, Lisa! I remember my mom suffering the a New Kids on the Block concert for me. (Ewwww, I know!) Glad to see you blogging again! :)
HEY Lisa!!! You need to come back to the world of blogging!!! :)
I just wanted to let you know that google reader is no longer recognizing my blogspot addy, and soon it probably won't work at all, so be sure to update your link to http://www.myspecialks.com . TTYS! :)
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